Drowning
by Lisa Paris
Summary: It would be crazy to go into the water, it must be barely thirty-two degrees . . .
1. Chapter 1

_**Drowning: - A White Collar Fic**_

_**Disclaimer: - I own no part of White Collar**_

_**NB: - I'm English, therefore I quite unapologetically write and spell in English. I'll do my best to keep these characters American.**_

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_**Drowning**_

_**Part One**_

He didn't know what the hell hit him. The stunning impact thumped him hard between the shoulder blades. He half-spun and made a clumsy grab for his gun, but by then it was a lifetime too late. _A boat wrench, a godamned boat wrench;_ his attacker had appeared from nowhere. He just about cleared the glock from its holster before the man struck him again. He yelled then, or swore and pushed backwards, dropping the gun from his nerveless fingers. It slid across the fibreglass boat deck and disappeared over the side into the water, before a third blow cracked the bones in his forearm with a sickening jolt of pain.

_Just routine_ – this was _not_ supposed to happen.

The guy, Sobek, was a witness not a suspect.

Him and Neal – they'd called in on their way back home – taking a detour to stop off at the marina. Neal had muttered about frostbite and overtime and sulked all the way across the city, cranking the heater to maximum efficiency in a vain effort to combat the cold. As usual, Peter had ignored him. He just wanted to get this over with. He was tired and decidedly hungry; looking forward to having dinner with El. Nothing was ever that simple of course, and there had been one or two loose ends which still puzzled him. So small, they were hardly anything. A mere crossing of _T's _and a dotting of_ I's_ but he wouldn't relax until they were tied.

Sobek had been friendly enough as he'd stepped onto the boat. There was nothing to suggest he should be wary. They'd swapped comments on the promise of ice in the air, and the clear frozen beauty of the sky. The other guy had been hiding at the front of the boat, hunkered down behind the bulk of a locker. He must have waited a few seconds and bided his time, before deciding on a plan of attack.

Peter lurched forwards and lowered his shoulder, face determined and jaw clenched in agony. He was hurting and taken badly off-guard, but be damned if he'd go down without a fight. The body check worked for a second or two, and his momentum sent them both reeling. He ducked sideways and made a desperate grasp for the wrench, but then Sobek struck him from behind. The whole thing was over in seconds, brutal and uncompromising. Something cracked hard across the back of his skull and he dropped like a stone to the deck.

Time stood still and the world became silent. He felt the shift of the boat on the water. He knew he should fight back, ought to call out for help, but his body refused to obey. The winter sun was low on the horizon and the sky was awash with colour. The sunset was streaked with crimson or it could be the blood in his eyes.

_There was something_ . . . he tried to remember. Neal had been freezing and reluctant to come with him. He'd been talking to Moz on his cell phone and disinclined to leave the warmth of the car. Peter gave thanks for small mercies. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. He clung on to the meagre crumb of comfort amidst the darkening swirls of pain. _Please God, this one time _. . . if only Neal would stay put, safe and sound in the parking lot.

His head was pounding and his stomach gave a treacherous lurch. He held his breath and tried to quell the bout of nausea. It took some seconds and a whole lot of willpower not to heave his guts all over the deck. Sobek was staring down at him, his expression both bewildered and angry. Peter watched him and strove to get a sense of the man, tried to work out what he was thinking. Events had spiralled sharply out of control and Peter guessed he was out of his depth. Maybe there was something he could work with here. He was not prepared to give up the ghost just yet. If Sobek was a reluctant accomplice, he could appeal to the man's streak of decency. Or more likely, any fear of retribution . . . at the very least, he had to try.

"Think about it," his voice sounded terrible. "Just remember I'm a federal agent. You'd better run this through pretty carefully. There's still time to make things right."

"Shut-up," the man levelled a handgun at him. It was probably the same one he'd clubbed him with. "It's too late for that, you shouldn't have come here."

"Put me ashore," Peter tried reason. "It'll still give you and your friend time to get out of here."

"I said, shut-up!" Sobek raised the gun in his fist and used it to strike him again.

Peter curled in to protect himself and the blow caught the plane of his cheekbone. It hurt, but not as much as it should have done, misdirected by Sobek's rage.

He felt rather than heard Sobek walking away, and then the throb of the engines below him. The boat was moving, heading out onto the river, taking advantage of the swift evening tide. He lay back on the deck and closed his eyes. It _truly_ was down to him now. There was no one else for him to worry about, and he'd rarely been more grateful in his life.

Neal was safe on the shore.

He exhaled in relief.

It was down to him to get out of this alive.

The two men were talking – arguing. It sounded like Sobek was pissed. He guessed the other guy had acted on impulse and created a major problem – namely him. He had to act, had to fight to stay conscious, before they decided to finish him. Something hard was digging into his hip-bone, and miraculously, he still had his cell. His breath caught as he shifted slightly, the pain in his arm was unbearable. He bit through his lip in agony. If they saw him, then he was probably a goner.

It was turned on – he pressed mute and then speed dial – his bloody fingers slipping and clumsy. He prayed Neal had finished talking to Moz as he scrolled down in search of the right name. He was facing away from the cockpit and they couldn't see his lips moving. With any luck, the noise of the engines would successfully muffle the sound.

One ring, and then; "Have you noticed how cold it's getting? Oh, and did I forget to say boring? You said this was going to take minutes. It would be nice to get home sometime soon."

He felt a rush of relief and would have smiled if he could – if the side of his face didn't hurt so much. Neal really was okay. He was safe in the car. The knowledge felt like a form of reprieve.

"Neal - "

Dear lord, he sounded worse than before. The name came out as barely a whisper. He knew that if he wanted to stay alive, he had to cowboy-up and get out of this mess.

"Where are you?" Any trace of mock-sarcasm had vanished. It was as if, somehow, Neal sensed he was in trouble.

Peter swallowed, feeling dangerously light-headed. "On the boat with Sobek and another guy. You need to call Diana for back-up. I'm hurt, Neal, I need your help."

"How hurt?" Neal's voice was suddenly sharp. "Hold on, I'm on my way."

"No time – need you to call for help, before they put a bullet in my head."

"Peter - "

"_No time,"_ he repeated for emphasis. His teeth were chattering loudly and a fine tremor ran through his body, although whether from cold or reaction, he really didn't want to think about it now. "Tell Diana I'm going into the water. She's got all of Sobek's details. We're headed down-river towards the Lower Bay. She'll know who to call, what to do."

"I'm going. For Christ's sake, be careful. You'd better be a damned good swimmer." There was a rough edge to Neal's voice. "Don't you die, Peter, don't you dare die on me, or what the hell am I going to tell El?"

"The right thing, you tell her the right thing. Whatever it is she needs to hear!"

He cut the call at the sound of her name. _I'm sorry, El . . ._ it was way too painful. If he stood any chance of getting out of this alive, then right now, he couldn't think about his wife.

He knew they were planning to kill him or they would have put him ashore at the marina. Almost certainly, they were heading for the deep water channels of the Bay to dump his body out at sea. There were no choices, really, and he knew it. The Hudson was the lesser of two evils. He could either take his chances in the water or wait for Sobek to put a bullet in his head.

_Now or never. _

While they were still near the shore-line, and he still had some odds in his favour. He knew the river got more tidal and dangerous the closer they got to the sea. Peter looked down at his cell – he didn't need it – other than for psychological comfort. It wasn't one of those high-tech gadgets like the military used; the GPS wouldn't work in the river. The thought of ditching it was absurdly painful – there were lists of valuable contacts – and then, of course, there were the personal things. The precious pictures of Satchmo and El.

Maybe it could still be of use, though. He wedged it out of sight beneath the decking. The FBI would be able to keep tracking the boat regardless of what happened to him.

_Talking of which . . ._

He took a breath and braced himself. He was less than two feet from the railings. Peter forced his battered body into action and rolled swiftly over the side.

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Neal left the car at a run and sprinted towards the quiet marina. There were only a couple of unoccupied yachts moored up in the dwindling light. He shaded his eyes against the sunset and tracked the wake of Sobek's boat across the water. It was moving pretty slowly at a couple of knots on a steady course out to the middle of the Hudson. One man stood topside near the rear of the boat, and he guessed the other was down in the cabin. His gut tightened and he tried not to panic. There was no sign of Peter anywhere. He couldn't see any trace of him out on the deck and his heart sank another few notches.

Even though it was February, the water was quite calm. The waves barely broke through the surface. There were traces of ice on the estuary mud shaped in crescents where the tide had been. It was the tail-end of one of those clear frozen days when the pale light was almost ethereal, but he wasn't in the mood to appreciate the view, or the beaten-silver beauty of the sky. Neal knew it must be bone-achingly cold, far too cold for a man who was injured. Although Peter was a very good swimmer, he'd be lucky to get out of this alive.

Talking of cold – he was already frozen. His hand was still clenched around his cell phone. He knew the temperature would drop even further as soon as it began getting dark. He'd called Diana immediately. It was a small but very solid comfort. She'd been calm and reassuringly professional, instructing him to wait at the scene. By scene – he knew she meant stay in the car, but she hadn't exactly spelled it out to him.

Since when had Neal Caffrey ever done as he was told?

_It was almost a matter of pride. _

He scanned the surface of the river between the boat and the shore, looking for evidence of anyone in the water. Each moment, every second was vital, as the vessel chugged further away. As they neared the centre of the Hudson, then the currents would get fiercer and more tidal. It would be harder – if not almost impossible for a wounded man to make it safely back to land. There was zero, he couldn't see anything. Nothing ruffled the surface of the water. Right now, it seemed the lesser of two evils, and he prayed that Peter was still on the boat.

"Come on, Peter," he found himself whispering. "Give me a sign, man, I'll settle for anything."

Later, _quite a long time later,_ he would wonder if Peter heard him. Sobek's boat began to loop in the water, turning back against the quickening tide. He heard a shout, then the pop of several gunshots, as the vessel curved in sideways to the shore. He watched intently and cursed the fast-fading light as the colours played tricks with his vision. There was a man holding onto the railing and staring intently down into the water. Seconds ticked, and at least half a minute went by, but there was no sign of anyone surfacing. Another minute and the boat gunned its engines again and headed off down the river at speed.

Was that a shape or a shadow . . .

Neal scrunched up his eyes and looked harder, unsure if it was merely wishful thinking. There was something dark, bobbing erratically, about four hundred yards from the waters-edge. There was no question, it was definitely Peter. He didn't seem to be making much progress. Neal lost him for a heart-stopping moment as he disappeared out of sight.

_What the hell did you expect, for crying out loud?_ Neal shook his head; _what was he thinking?_

It would be crazy to go into the water.

It must be barely thirty-two degrees.

He heard the _whup-whup_ of blades and looked up at the sky. There was a helicopter some way off in the distance. The sirens followed a few seconds later, and he moistened his lips in relief. Okay, so the cavalry was on its way, but it would still take too long for them to get here. He looked down at his watch and raked a hand through his hair. The whole thing was the wrong kind of paradox. There was too little time to save Peter's life but enough time in which he might die.

There was only one possible solution.

_It would be crazy to go into the water. _

Neal knew he was quite a strong swimmer. That part of it was never in question. He'd spent plenty of illicit vacations diving off the world's colourful reefs. It was another place, another lifetime ago, and the thought still hurt in-spite of the danger. Him and Kate, they'd been sun-kissed and happy back then, their bodies lithe and glistening with salt water; but the oceans had been warm and pellucid, and he'd swum like a seal in their embrace.

This was different, so very different, it scared him. He swallowed hard as he watched Peter struggling. The freezing Hudson licked over the toes of his shoes as he crouched at the waters-edge. It was darker and the air cut into his lungs, remorseless with the first frost of evening. If he entered the water, he would be risking his life. _Most likely, he would be dead. _

It was Peter . . . it was Peter Burke out there.

In the end, it was a no-brainer. He slipped his shoes off and positioned them carefully, before removing the fedora from his head. It was too good a hat to be ruined, so he placed it where the tide wouldn't get it. Who knew, if he was lucky and the gods were on his side, then he might get to wear it again.

_Who knew?_

He looked down a little cynically at the tracker. It was allegedly one hundred per cent waterproof. Did that include an impromptu dip in the Hudson? He was about to put the damned thing to the test. _In for a penny_ . . . he might have laughed at the irony but nothing about this was remotely funny. Neal Caffrey, the world's greatest con-man, and he was risking his life for a fed. His feet sank in the mud as he stood at the edge and took one last look at the sunset. The sky was bleeding wide streaks of vermilion. He kept his fingers crossed it wasn't an omen.

_Not just any old fed, it was Peter. _God, the man had a way of disarming him. _Mister straight-arrow, by the book, vanilla _. . . the man had wormed his way under his skin.

He took one step and then another.

The raw cold was shocking in intensity. It paralysed and then stole the breath from him. He clenched his jaw and struck out with a purpose. _If he could synchronise his muscles and move quickly _. . . the icy waters closed over his head.

_**TBC**_

_**Lisa Paris - 2011**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Drowning: - A White Collar Fic**_

_**Disclaimer: - I own no part of White Collar**_

_**NB: - I'm English, therefore I quite unapologetically write and spell in English. I'll do my best to keep these characters American. A quick thanks to everyone who alerted, favourited and reviewed. It's always nerve-racking debuting in a new fandom. **_

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_**Drowning**_

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_**Part Two**_

He fell backwards, hitting the surface hard, and the force of it took his breath away. The drop from the boat was maybe ten or twelve feet, but it felt like he had landed on concrete. There was shock and a moment of panic as the brown waters folded around him, dragging down at the wool of his suit jacket as the wake of the boat sucked him in. Peter fought it for a few desperate seconds, tumbled around by the churn of the river, trying hard not to inhale the dirty water as it shot like a jet up his nose. He was lost in a nightmare of confusion and darkness, pulled down by the force of the tide.

The cold was stunning.

No – make that unbearable. His muscles were trembling in agony. There was no room for any form of self-delusion here; nobody could last long in this. If he was fit, wearing the right type of clothing, then he'd be fortunate to last fifteen minutes. Instead, he'd been beaten. He was hurt and concussed. He had five minutes tops, if he was lucky.

The draw of the tide was relentless, sucking him deeper into watery blackness. The pressure of the current was more powerful than he'd thought and he felt his lungs aching for air. _Get to the light . . ._ he tried to kick for the surface, the fear of drowning more vital than the danger. The waters wrapped around his shoes and suit trousers and the weight of them tugged him down again. It was as though his legs were set in concrete and he was fighting a losing battle. At any other time, he might back himself. All in all, he was a pretty strong swimmer, but his broken arm was worse than useless, although oddly, he wasn't feeling any pain. He twisted his body and tried to toe off his shoes. In the end, he got rid of one of them. It was enough to give him purchase in the water and he thrust upwards and broke through the wake.

Gulping in air, he let his head drop backwards and tried to free his legs from the undertow. He choked on another mouthful of Hudson as the water washed over his face. The waves settled as the tide swung him clear of the boat, long enough for him to gain some composure. He turned around and struck out with his good arm, but the shoreline was a lifetime away. He tried to keep the half-stroke fast and determined but it felt as though the river was against him. The waters had become his adversary and developed a life of their own. The idea was crazy and fanciful, and he half sobbed, half laughed out loud, like a mad man. Although right now the Hudson was his nemesis, it didn't harbour any malevolent intent. The real problem was lack of oxygen – he was still able to recognise the deadly symptoms. It was changing his sense of perception and making everything dreamlike and surreal.

_He had to stop gulping in water or else he would surely die. _

The boat was circling and Peter's heart sank. He'd hoped that Sobek would make a run for it. That the man would cut his losses and use what commonsense he had, and head for some means of escape. The sky was getting darker and the river icy cold, so the odds were in his favour, bigtime. There wasn't much point trying to finish the job. He ought to leave any loose ends to the tides.

Thank the lord, it looked like Neal had done as he was told, and decided to carry out his instructions. Diana would have called out the NYPD Harbour Patrol, and scrambled an urgent rescue alert.

_Anytime soon, guys . . ._

For now, Peter knew he was still on his own, and he had to get to shore to stay alive. At best, he had another minute or so before the vessel came about alongside him. At which point, he would be an easy target if they fired a few pot-shots his way. He swam harder – but he was already flagging, his weakening muscles sluggish and reluctant. The cold stabbed at his lungs like a dagger and caused a sharp wheezing pain in his chest. The sky was considerably darker, either that or his eyesight was fading. He tried to fixate upon maintaining a straight line and heading in directly to the shore.

Not easy – it wasn't easy.

The Hudson seemed determined to thwart him. He was so tired and his muscles were screaming with pain. Peter could feel himself starting to drift. The black ribbon of safety at the waters-edge began to seem like impossibility. For every few strokes he swam forwards, the grasping tides pulled him away.

_Sobek's boat_ – for a brief second, he'd forgotten the boat. The current changed as it ran alongside him. In a strange way it did him a favour, and he surfed the wake some extra yards towards land. He heard a yell, and it brought him to his senses, restoring a semblance of clarity. Either Sobek or his murderous passenger; he wasn't going to hang around to find out. He took a rapid breath and dove beneath the surface, as bullets peppered like lethal raindrops around him. He could feel the deadly rush as they whizzed past him, more than one far too close to his head. He thrust his legs like a jack-knife, as he kicked some eight feet down under the water. The swift flowing river was muddy and opaque and made it impossible to see.

There was no way he'd be able to do this for long. Maybe for twenty – thirty yards, if he was lucky. If his shrieking lungs could hang onto some oxygen, and his muscles score a little extra strength. It was like being tumbled on spin-cycle in the drum of an industrial washer. The tide tossed and turned him like a paper doll, the power of it rough and exhausting. _Had to try . . . _he gritted his teeth and forced himself forwards, but the darkness was beginning to press in on him. Black spots danced on the edge of his vision and Peter knew he was running out of air. The pain in his chest was unbearable now and everything was fuzzy and dreamlike. His eyes were blind and aching with cold and his weary limbs refused to cooperate. He really should be breaking the surface again, but he was sinking slowly instead.

Sobek was the least of his worries as he tried to kick himself upwards. The river wrapped its frigid fingers around him and he felt clumsy and unable to focus. He was losing it – losing it big-time. It was over, and he knew he was drowning.

_Tired . . . he was just so damned tired. _

It was easier to simply stop struggling. He let go and started drifting with the undertow. The tide nudged and pulled at him gently and immediately, the river ceased to fight him. Of all the times and potential means . . . of all the ways he'd pictured himself dying – a stray bullet perhaps, or even a coronary, but never in a million years, like this.

_They say your life flashes before you. _

His mind was filled with disjointed images which flickered like old-time cine-film. The faces and voices of people he loved, imploring him and calling his name. He knew he should try to answer them. He was being unfair and selfish, letting down the folk who depended on him to be there at the end of the day. _Giving up . . . he was giving up . . . _he didn't want to, but the river had beaten him. The pain relaxed as his lungs filled with water and he gave in to a darker embrace. Never an angel, he'd done his share of troublesome things, and there were some actions he was downright ashamed of, but when it came down to checks and balances, he hoped the scales would weigh in his favour.

This whole thing was going to be rough on Neal. Would he have the mental strength to get through it? Was he tough enough to call on his inner goodness and resolve, and stick to the straight and narrow?

In his heart, Peter felt he knew the answer. Or, at least, he hoped he did. Of all the things in his life he was proudest of, Neal was close to the top of the list. It was good to know he would be there for El. Peter didn't doubt it for a second. She was going to be so sad and lost for a while. She would need all the help she could get.

"_El . . ." _

He spoke her name out loud and choked down water. This time there was no feeling of panic. The pressure on his chest was crushing, but oddly, it didn't hurt like before. She was so close he could reach out and touch her, hear her voice, smell the musk of her perfume. Her sweet face was laughing and merry, with that look he adored in her eyes. That particular look had been there this morning as she'd turned her head towards him on the pillow. The fleeting memory of their subsequent lovemaking was both comforting and bittersweet.

He really didn't want to leave her. He only hoped to God she would know that. That she'd remember he'd told her he loved her, as she'd shaken her head and straightened up his tie. She was beautiful both inside and outside. He loved every dazzling thing about her. Every time he saw her, he couldn't quite believe his luck. She was his everything. She was his life.

There was regret and a sense of sadness, so poignant, it stole the last of his air. Or maybe that was the river. He no longer knew or cared. His body floated down through the dark water and a multitude of bubbles danced around him. Peter closed his eyes and surrendered, and strangely, he felt totally at peace.

This then . . . _this then, surely, was death._

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Neal swam valiantly against the current, trying to keep his strokes steady and in rhythm. Even though the river was reasonably calm, he was up against the swell of the tide. He was only two hundred yards from the shore-line, and already he had painful pins and needles. His feet felt leaden and heavy and he was becoming disagreeably numb.

_Way to go, Caffrey, you knew this was nuts_.

The cold was eating into his bone marrow. He strove to keep his head out of the water after the first unpleasant ducking he'd had. There was one good thing – _the only good thing_ – he was trying his best to keep positive. Sobek's boat was a shadow in the distance, and Neal was pretty glad to see the back of it. Once he'd told Diana what they'd done to Peter, he was sure the bastard wouldn't get far.

_Peter. _

It had all gone _so_ wrong, _so_ quickly, but he was smart enough to realise it was random. There had been nothing to suggest any danger, as Vinny Sobek wasn't even a suspect. It was so typical of Peter to insist on one last stop in-spite of the icy-cold evening. The man couldn't just go home like normal people did - he always had to play _Super-Fed._ Nonetheless, Neal couldn't help feeling guilty, it was easy – so easy to blame himself. He'd been freezing and fed-up and cranky; if he was honest, sulking a little. Looking forward to plotting and planning with Moz and a rather large glass of Merlot. Neal guessed there was some news about the music-box, but right now, that was not very helpful. God, he should have gone down to the marina instead of opting for the warmth of the car.

_Stupid – he was a whole lot of stupid._

Who's to say things would have been any different?

If he'd been there, and Sobek had pulled a gun, then it could have been a whole lot worse. Peter might have been forced to play hero in an effort to save both their skins. _Damn the man, what was he thinking?_ He had no right to put them through this. He had commitments and obligations, and people who relied upon him. He should be sitting at his dining table even now, smuggling surreptitious morsels to Satchmo. He should be at home drinking red wine with El, instead of taking crazy risks with his life. Neal gave another huff of annoyance. He didn't understand why he felt so angry.

_Nope_ – he added a caveat - _better make that downright livid._ Right now, it was almost a good thing, as it kept the blood alive in his veins.

It certainly made him swim faster.

_Either that or the frigid water._

He exhaled, treading water on the surface for a moment, as he tried to gauge his distance from the riverbank. He needed some idea of his position so he could work out where Peter should be. This was it, or as near as damn it. The last place he'd seen his partner in the water. He flipped his body and scanned the surface around him, but there was nothing at all to be seen.

He swore long and hard with frustration, risking mouthfuls of dirty water. It was one way of venting his panic and it helped take the edge off his rage. No amount of charm would get him out of this one, and he could hardly bat his eyelashes at the elements. He was way, _way_ out of his comfort zone, and he hated the lack of control. Right now, it was him against nature, the impervious heart of the Hudson, and if the cruel river failed to kill him, it was a sure bet the freezing cold would.

"Peter?"

The silence mocked him. All he could hear was the sound of his teeth chattering. One of his calf muscles spasmed, and he knew he was seriously cold. It couldn't have been more than minutes – but it felt like time was sealed in a vacuum. A bare maximum of ten deadly minutes since he'd promised to take care of El.

"Peter!" he called out more desperately.

Again, there was nothing. No answer. There was no sign of anyone in the water, just a few bubbles popping on the surface approximately ten feet or so away.

"Damn it."

The river was darker, more forbidding, and looked almost purple in the twilight. Neal took a deep breath and tried to swallow his fear. There was only one viable option. Peter was drowning – _dying._ The rescue craft was never going to make it. He knew he had to dive beneath the surface. He stood the only chance of saving Peter's life. His own situation was perilous enough. The drop in temperature was making him irrational. Neither one of them had very long now, but Peter had less time than him.

Neal smiled wryly and took a last glance at the sky. If time was precious then he'd better not waste it. He turned in the direction he'd last seen the bubbles rise, and dove with a strong kick beneath the waves. It was a lot blacker than he'd imagined and hard to see that much of anything. The fading light was losing any power to penetrate very far beyond the surface. He looked around and took note of his bearings. There it was – the rising column of bubbles. He hoped and prayed he wasn't clutching at straws, as he turned and followed them down.

It grew colder as he got deeper. He was finding it hard not to panic. Any vestige of light soon greyed out and died. It was impossible, he couldn't see a thing. _Please . . ._ he realised his lips were moving. He was pleading but no one was listening. _Let me find him . . . please let me find him._ Neal reached the brink of despair.

It was too late and he was out of oxygen.

His hand brushed something soft in the blackness.

Neal reached out again and made a grab for it.

_His fingers grasped hold of Peter's hair. _

He gripped tightly, though his lungs were bursting, hooking his arms around his partner's chest. He realised then how much trouble they were in, as Peter's weight dragged him down like a stone. The water pushed against them, heavy and dense, as he kicked hard and fought to yank them both upwards. Every muscle in his body screamed with effort and pain as he broke through the surface at last.

He was shouting or maybe he was crying. He was delirious with cold and lack of oxygen. He pulled Peter's head in close to his chest, but the current tried to rip him from his arms. Neal held on tighter and began to thrust for the shore, and at long last, the tide was in his favour. Peter hung against him, frighteningly silent, as their legs kept getting tangled in the water.

"Come on, Peter, you can do this."

Neal adopted the life-saving position and let the shore-bound waves nudge them forward. He knew he shouldn't waste energy talking, and he_ definitely_ shouldn't use up his air. Right now, the rules didn't matter. Nothing mattered unless Peter answered him; but Peter stayed unnaturally quiet, his white face slack and inert.

Red and blue lights flashed near the marina, and the sound of the sirens split the frozen evening. The beam of a searchlight bisected the water as the helicopter swooped overhead. The waves seemed to surge and pick up some extra swell which pushed them closer to safety. A boat – there was a vessel approaching, he could hear the steady throb of marine engines. A small part of him hoped it wasn't Sobek returning, but by now, he was too far gone to care.

All that mattered was getting Peter to shore.

To where he knew there would be medical help waiting.

He clung on through the mind-numbing shudders of cold and the deep relentless pain. For a moment, he almost lost it and he struggled, spitting out water. Neal half-turned and pulled Peter closer. _He would not let this man die._ His eyes stung with salt and other things – maybe tears and polluted river. He blinked in an effort to clear them and tried to focus on the red flashing lights.

Twenty yards – he was getting closer.

His shoulders were burning in agony.

There were figures, dark shadows on the edge of the bank and voices calling his name. _Nearer. _He was getting nearer. Neal no longer knew if he would make it. His limbs were heavy and useless. His heart felt like lead in his chest.

So close, but his body was failing him, and worse than that, failing Peter. His hands were so frozen they were losing their grip and he could feel Peter slipping away. The world was black – even blacker than before – and then suddenly he was under the water. He flailed upwards in a last burst of panic, his gasping lungs frantic for air. He spun around in despair but Peter had gone.

It had won.

The river had taken him.

There were hands on him, steadying him, helping him, but he twisted and fought against them. He had to go back . . . had to save him . . .

He was calling out Peter's name.

_**TBC**_

_**Lisa Paris - 2011**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Drowning: - A White Collar Fic**_

_**Disclaimer: - I own no part of White Collar**_

_**NB: - I'm English, therefore I quite unapologetically write and spell in English. I'll do my best to keep these characters American.**_

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_**Drowning**_

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_**Part Three **_

Neal resisted with every ounce of strength he had left, as the rescue party pulled him from the river. He gritted his teeth against the fire in his shoulders and arms, as he lashed out and fought hard against them. So close – they'd been so close to safety and to lose Peter now was unimaginable. He was shouting – or at least he was trying to – but he kept retching-up mouthfuls of water. For some reason, his voice wasn't working. His lungs were whooping and gasping for air.

Not like this . . . _not like this_ . . . they laid him out on the bank and he rolled onto his side, trembling violently. His stomach convulsed hard in agony, and he was horribly ill everywhere.

He was surrounded with sudden efficiency and loaded onto a stretcher. Someone was easing him backwards and stripping off his wet clothes. Neal shut his eyes and lay passively, he simply didn't have the energy to fight them. The tightness in his chest eased a little with the oxygen mask over his face. _Not real . . . none of it . . . it couldn't be real._ Everything had happened so quickly. In the space of a few minutes, they were on their way home and the next minute, Peter had gone.

_Just like Kate - _the whisper was insidious.

_Just like everything you ever cared for. _

All the beautiful things, all the money, all the hidden accounts and secret stashes . . . in the end they counted for nothing, if he kept losing the people who mattered. Since when had Peter started to matter? Maybe right from the very beginning. When he'd been startled by the total integrity he'd seen in the other man's eyes. His heart clenched – faith was a hell of a word, but he'd begun to have faith in Peter. He trusted him as much as he possibly could, with his life, and as importantly, his future_._

A dark wave of panic flooded over him, and for a moment, he was back in the water. The sensation of drowning was closely aligned to a sudden awareness of loss.

_If Peter died, what would happen to him? _

The pressure in his chest was increasing again and Neal felt his heart-rate accelerate. He was layered in warm dry blankets and then wrapped in something shiny and crinkling. The lack of oxygen must be making him crazy - he had visions of a Thanksgiving turkey. The image made him half-laugh, half-sob with hysteria.

_He could use a warm_ _oven right now. _

Meanwhile, Peter was still missing in the water. Neal jerked upwards and tore the mask away. He had to let them know, had to tell them – there might still be time to save Peter's life . . .

"Take it easy," there was a hand on his shoulder, and he looked into Diana's worried face.

He reached out and grabbed hold of her jacket in an effort to make her understand the urgency, but he was faint and dizzy with nausea, and a wash of blackness almost engulfed him. Gripping harder, he forced a ragged breath through his nose and the sharp air was temporarily steadying. She came closer and laced her fingers through his, and he saw the lines of strain around her eyes.

"Peter?"

"Looks like they found him."

He hated the sound of dread in her voice, and strained hard in an attempt to see things better, but all he could distinguish were shadows, too many people blocking his view. Diana eased a steady arm around him and propped him up enough to make out the waters-edge. He could see now with a frightening clarity, and he lent against her, feeling sick and cold.

It was Peter – but it wasn't Peter.

Not this pale silent thing – not this travesty. The man he knew was always in command, in control. His presence demanded respect. If everything was as it should be, if everything was working as usual, then Peter should get to his feet with a smile and take charge of the situation.

He didn't.

Instead, he just lay there.

Neal was filled with a mad urge to yell at him as the irrational sense of anger flooded back again. There was ice inside him, bitter, inescapable. It froze and congealed in his veins. Nothing was right and he could no longer look. He closed his eyes to block out the truth and slumped back against Diana. If Peter didn't wake up anytime soon, it would never be right again.

The EMT's were working frantically in a scene straight out of Dante's inferno, against a backdrop of crimson darkening sky and the glow of the flashing red lights. He could hear every word they were saying and none of it sounded good.

"Pulse-less . . . he's not breathing . . . hypothermic, low core temperature. Commencing intubation and CPR, we have thermoregulatory arrest."

Neal opened his eyes and watched as they worked. It went against every instinct in his body. He wanted to get down off the gurney and run for his very life. The urge – _no, better make that the need to escape_ – was a part of the old Neal Caffrey. To get in and take anything he wanted with a smile and a wink of the eye. It was who he was – what he was good at – and it came as easy as breathing. Never stick around for the consequences and leave someone else to clean up the mess.

Oh yeah, he'd been very good at it, and the world had pretty much been his oyster. He'd always liked to thumb his nose at authority; always loved the quick thrill of the chase. He'd realised early that most folks were gullible and a fairly large proportion were greedy. It was simple – so simple to con them by merely saying what they wanted to hear. None of them were as smart as he was, and in a way, it was his justification. There was a profound love of rarity and beauty inside him which ran deeper than mere monetary value. People didn't deserve to own exquisite things unless they genuinely appreciated their worth.

_Like Kate . . ._

She'd been truly exquisite.

He'd done everything he could to cherish her like one of his rare priceless objects. Everything and more she'd demanded of him, and still it was never enough. He'd run the gauntlet, begged, stolen and borrowed . . . compromised his ideals and his principles. He'd been caught and shouldered all of the blame and then ended up changing his life.

He knew he couldn't take much credit for that, most of it was down to Peter. The only man who'd been able to collar him, the man dying right in front of his eyes. Peter was the reason he wouldn't run, even if the damned tracker had malfunctioned. Neal ran a shaky hand through his hair and shifted impatiently on the gurney. The irony was he was deeply afraid to so much as leave the man's side. He'd saved him, dragged him out of the river and so didn't that mean Peter owed him?

There was something – he couldn't quite remember – maybe he'd read it in a fortune cookie? It was Chinese or maybe even Jewish . . . a corny saying about owing him a life?

_God, if Peter could hear this he'd be laughing. _

That was the good thing about him.

He made everyone around him feel grounded.

_The man had no right to die. _

Neal took a deep breath and tried to re-focus, by now, he was shivering in earnest. In-spite of the layers of blankets, it was surprising how cold he still was. The EMT's had mentioned the hospital and he guessed he would need to be admitted. They'd muttered something about x-raying his chest and getting his temperature back up. God, he'd always hated anything medical. It was so crude and basic and ugly. A cruel reminder of human frailty and the way it had of levelling things out.

_Even a good man like Peter could die._

The words in his head sounded childish. Hell, he knew what Peter did for a living, and he was by no means dumb or naïve. There were times when he'd seen a certain look on El's face; when she'd gripped hold of Peter's lapels a little tighter. He'd sensed the ghost of her fear as they'd stood by the door and murmured their loving farewells. _Maybe this was the last goodbye . . . _

Had she felt it when she'd kissed him this morning?

When she'd patiently straightened his tie?

Was she at home now laying out the supper plates, yet filled with a whisper of dread?

Peter jerked as the medics tried to restart his heart, and Neal gripped the side of the gurney. Two men tried to move him to an ambulance, but Diana waved them quickly away. There would be time enough to go to the hospital. _Time enough, when this was all over._ Neal knew that if the roles were reversed, then Peter wouldn't leave him alone.

Nothing happened.

He was filled with a feeling of hopelessness as the EMT's stared at the monitor. There was a sharp, almost tangible sense of finality and a slackening of tension in the air. One of the medics turned to Diana with an imperceptible shake of his head.

"No, you are not giving up on him," Neal's voice hardened with anger. "This is Peter . . . please, Diana, _its Peter_, and we all know how stubborn he is!"

"Neal - "

"No," he tried to rise and push her away, the sense of urgency spiking his adrenalin. "No, don't you dare _'Neal'_ me. He's still in there, I know it, still fighting. If we don't give him every possible chance, do you want to be the one to tell El?"

"He's right," Diana straightened and glared back at the EMT, "and that means you need to keep trying. This man always has every one of our backs, and now it's our turn to do it for him."

"Thank you," Neal swallowed and reached for her hand as they watched the medics recharge the paddles. Their grips tightened simultaneously as the defibrillator beeped _ready_ again.

In his heart, Neal knew hope was fading, rather like his initial burst of fury. There was an ache building somewhere in the centre of his chest and he felt hollow and dizzy again. _It was only supposed to be a routine call . . . there had been nothing to suggest any danger. He'd watched Peter walk across the parking lot while he'd stayed safe and warm in the car._ He remembered hearing his voice on the phone. In-spite of everything, he'd still sounded so resolute; rattling off his usual list of instructions, when he was trapped and quite obviously hurt.

"_The right thing, you tell El the right thing. Whatever it is she needs to hear!" _

There was nothing he could tell her and he knew it.

Nothing that would ever make things right.

He turned away from Peter and looked up at the sky as the sun slipped down beyond the horizon. The last vivid colour had washed out and died to be replaced by the blanket of night. It was a little like looking down a tunnel as all the people around him grew smaller. Their voices grew quieter as he lay back on the gurney. He was cold and it was hard to breathe.

Someone –_ Diana_ – was calling his name.

He no longer wished to listen.

He could guess what she was trying to tell him.

He had no desire to hear what she would say.

* * *

There was a woman standing by the window, her face half-concealed by the shadows. For one disquieting second he thought it was Kate, but then she turned and he saw it was Elizabeth. She moved quietly and stood by the side of his bed. It was evident she'd just been crying. Neal lowered his eyes, he couldn't look at her. If he did, she'd see the guilt in his eyes.

"You're awake." Her voice was soft and concerned, and right now, it was more than he could deal with. He didn't want her here being nice to him – he just wished she would go away. She didn't though. "The EMT's brought you here to St Luke's with a major case of hypothermia. They were worried about some cardiac arrhythmias. You gave us all quite a scare."

_Quite a scare._

He exhaled bitterly, as her words compounded his wretchedness. His own health was the last thing he cared about, and it wasn't what he wanted to hear. None of it really mattered when he'd let her down so very badly. He cleared his throat and looked across at the window, wondering how long he'd been unconscious. In-spite of the blinds being lowered, it was obviously still dark outside.

"What time is it?"

"Past three in the morning, although, somehow it seems later than that."

He nodded in agreement and wished it was. _He'd prefer it a whole lot later._ A couple of months might be enough to do the trick, or even better, maybe a whole year. He took a quick inventory of the hospital room. He was hooked up to an IV and a monitor and still felt pretty strange and light-headed. Short of causing a minor medical disturbance, there was clearly no chance of escape. Neal felt a rush of shame for his cowardice, there was no way of avoiding the issue. He'd made commitments and had promises to honour. For the first time, he really looked at El.

She was pale despite the artificial lighting, her eyes heavy-lidded from weeping. As he studied her, her hand shook a little as she reached up to straighten her hair. For a beautiful woman, she looked like hell. He couldn't bear to contemplate how she was feeling. He'd watched her enough times with Peter, to know the man had been the love of her life.

"I'm so sorry," his voice was scratchy and sore. It felt like he'd just run a marathon. His chest wall was tight and constricted as though he was labouring for air.

She shook her head. "You shouldn't be. From the sound of it, you were nothing less than heroic. I – I can't even begin to thank you."

"God, no," he pushed himself upwards. "I should have – _I should have gone with him._ It was cold and we'd had such a long day . . . he . . . he let me stay in the car."

"And then what – those men would have attacked you both?" Even in grief, El was pragmatic, as she echoed his earlier musings. "Chances are, neither one of you would have made it. You think Peter would have wanted that?"

Her words were true – however unpalatable – it was the last thing Peter would have wanted. His blue eyes burned intensely with a sudden desire for revenge. "Did they get them?"

She nodded, sadly, but with some degree of evident pride. "Several hours ago. Peter must have managed to hide his cell just before he went overboard. The FBI fixed a trace on the GPS tracker and caught them headed out toward the Lower Bay. If Peter hadn't gone overboard when he did . . ." her resolution faded and died.

"Trust Peter," Neal swallowed hard. "Always the Company man."

"And proud to be," El rallied and gave a teary smile. "I think that's partly why I love him so much."

Neal tried to speak but words failed him. There was nothing he could say to comfort her. No platitudes were ever going to make things all right, or make the guilt go away. All the anger and sense of turmoil was gone. Instead, there was silence and emptiness. It was hard to understand El's composure, when he felt hollow and profoundly depressed.

_Wait a minute . . . _

El had said _'love'_ and not _'loved.'_

Present tense – and definitely not past tense. Merely semantics – it couldn't mean anything. _Flashing lights and the whine of the defibrillator – the blood red streaks on the horizon._ He pictured the grim scene at the marina and the bile rose up like a bitter reminder. It was dumb and he was clutching at straws. For God's sake, Peter was dead.

"Peter - "

Neal reached for Elizabeth's hand and barely croaked out the name. He had to know, had to ask her. He could scarcely stand to hear the answer, as a flame of hope leapt in his heart.

She looked back at him in dawning comprehension and her expression changed from sadness to horror. Her fingers tightened compulsively as her nails dug into his skin.

"Oh, no, Neal . . . god, you thought he was dead? Peter's here, in the ICU. He's critical and the doctors keep shaking their heads, but I have to believe he'll come back to me."

"He's alive?"

"Alive," she confirmed it, defiantly, with just the tiniest hint of a tremor. "They wanted to run some more x-rays, so they kicked me out of his room for a while."

Neal closed his eyes in relief. He could hardly believe what she was saying. The sense of respite was almost overwhelming, albeit somewhat premature. He should have known Peter would put up a fight. The man was stubborn, it was in his nature. He would do all he could not to leave them, but it was clear he was still gravely ill.

He had to know. "What are the doctors saying?"

El gave a sigh and sat down in a chair next to his bed. "There's some trauma from the beating those men gave him, a broken arm and evidence of concussion, and they've had trouble maintaining his temperature as a result of the severe hypothermia. All of that would normally be fixable," she faltered, and drew her shoulders up straighter, "if he hadn't inhaled so much water. They're pretty worried about the state of his lungs. The real problem was caused by the drowning."

Neal shivered and thought about the river. How it had turned into a living entity – how it had battled him to cling onto to Peter, and then tried to take both their lives. In the end, it was luck, it was pure dumb luck he'd found Peter and managed to hold onto him. He recalled the few seconds of sheer terror near the shore, when Peter's body had twisted away. If the rescue team hadn't arrived when they did, then there would have been a whole different outcome.

"It was so cold," he was stating the obvious, but somehow it still needed saying. "I couldn't have got to him any quicker."

"I know that, and I'm sure that Peter does. He'll be the first to tell you when he wakes-up. Oh, Neal - " the tears were back in her eyes, and her lashes stuck in clumps, thick and wet. "They had to put him on a respirator because his lungs are full of fluid, and I understand why, I really do, but he's so silent, so grey and fragile. It's terrifying to see him like this - not like Peter at all."

"El - " he frankly didn't know how to comfort her, or which words might make things better. The image she described was upsetting, and to be honest, it frightened him too.

"The doctors want to run some brain scans; they're concerned about neurological damage. I guess that's the thing which scares me the most. Not knowing if _my_ Peter's still in there."

"He's in there, El – you need to have faith." Peter came back to haunt him. Neal remembered the last words he'd spoken - was he channelling the man in his head? _"The right thing, you tell El the right thing. Whatever it is she needs to hear!" _

And right now, she needed him to be strong. To keep believing _her_ Peter would return to her. He couldn't bear to think of the alternatives, or even contemplate the fact he might be wrong.

"Mrs Burke?" the nurse came in quietly. "The ICU just called me, and its okay to return to your husband. As for you, Mister Caffrey, you really need to get some more rest."

El shot out of the chair and put her game-face back on, her self-possession regained in an instant. She looked around at Neal on her way out of the door, and screwed her forehead up in contrition. "I'm sorry, I really hate the thought of leaving you alone, but you understand I have to be with Peter. I'll call June and try to get hold of Mozzie, now I know you're awake."

"Of course."

He watched her leave and lay back, quietly, as the nurse recorded his vital signs. She smoothed out his pillows and adjusted his IV and then he finally had the solitude he craved. Maybe it was the hospital atmosphere, but it seemed as though he was in limbo; floating and lost in the twilight zone, as he reflected on the days events. He smiled and then nearly choked on a sob as he remembered the black felt fedora. Despite, or in-spite of all the drama and fear, he could still get upset about a hat.

_More than a hat._

It was suddenly clear.

The fedora was kind of symbolic.

It stood for a new set of people and dreams, and represented a new way of life.

_**TBC**_

_**Lisa Paris - 2011**_

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	4. Chapter 4

_**Drowning: - A White Collar Fic**_

_**Disclaimer: - I own no part of White Collar**_

_**NB: - I'm English, therefore I quite unapologetically write and spell in English. I'll do my best to keep these characters American. Many thanks to everyone reading, reviewing and favouriting. **_

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_**Drowning**_

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_**Part Four **_

As dreams went, this wasn't the greatest. In-fact, it was more of a nightmare. Peter knew he was in real trouble, but somehow, he just couldn't wake-up. He was sinking – falling down through black water, the drag of it strong and unyielding. The pressure was almost unbearable as he fought and struggled for air. There was something he couldn't quite seem to recall . . . he couldn't grasp hold of anything substantial. The dark water was intense and overpowering. The memories fluttered like moths around flames.

"Can you hear me?"

The question threw him a lifeline and he reached out and clung onto it gratefully. He was tired . . . far too tired to do anything else except hold on and hope for a break.

"It's okay, honey, you're safe now. Come on, fight it – I know you can do it. The doctor's have taken the tube out. They want you to start breathing for yourself."

Her voice was wonderfully soothing – rather like Mozart on a warm sunny morning. He should respond – try harder to answer – but the water clawed him backwards again.

"Peter, _please_ - "

She sounded distressed and that wasn't good. In-fact, it was positively terrible. It was his job to make everything better for her; he couldn't bear to be the cause of such anguish. Peter knew he had to try harder, it didn't matter how much he was hurting. He had to kick out and break through the surface. Anything to put a stop to her pain.

His heart laboured and he forced himself upwards. The effort was extreme and shattering. Just when he thought he wasn't going to make it, a patch of light shone clear and white above his head. He flailed in a last ditch, unwieldy attempt, but his limbs were clumsy and useless. Her hands gripped his, warm and familiar, and he burst through with a final surge of strength.

"Peter?"

His eyes fluttered open but the glare was too bright and it hurt him. He turned his head on the pillow and quickly closed them again.

"No, you don't," she laid a shielding hand across his forehead. "Come on, honey, open your eyes for me."

He laid his aching head against the softness of her palm, and obediently did as he'd been told. This time, it was a little easier, as he squinted to adjust to the light. Her radiant smile was worth it in spades and encouraged him to open them wider. She must have known she would get her way in the end. He never _could_ refuse her anything.

"Beautiful," he murmured, sleepily. _What a terrific sight to wake-up to_. Maybe when he felt a little livelier, he would tell her all about his bad dream.

"I agree," El leant in and kissed him, and her mouth smelled of coffee and cinnamon. "All sexy and brown, and smart as all get out. I can't tell you how much I've missed them, or how great it is to see them open again."

Peter frowned, and it made his head hurt. Her voice sounded fragile and shaky. He knew his Elizabeth well enough to understand something was wrong. _What had he done?_ She was clearly upset with him. He focused hard and made more effort to concentrate as he studied her lovely face. Tears trembled on the edges of her lashes, and he realised then she was crying. The memories assaulted him thick and fast, as his sense of awareness crystallised.

_They'd stopped off at the marina on their way back home, and the air had been sharp as daggers. The slap-slap of waves against the side of the hull - streaks of red in the winter sky. Neal had stayed in the car and he was thankful for that. A feeling of relief washed over him. It had all gone badly south pretty quickly, but at least one of them was safe. No choice – they were going to shoot him. Take him out to the Lower Bay then dump his body. No choice – there was only one means of escape; he was going over the side. It was the river or the channels at the mouth of the sea. He was sinking down in dark water. The Hudson was pitiless, as cold as ice. This, then surely, was death._

"Did I die?"

The question was involuntary. It was cruel, but he needed an answer. If he asked now, then he might just get away with it. He wouldn't have the nerve to hurt her again. She was very still for a second or two, and Peter knew he had his reply. She laid her head very softly on his shoulder and they clung to each other in silence.

Things got hazy and he drifted for along time after that, but he was always aware of her presence, the scent of her perfume, gentle touch of her hands and the restful sound of her voice. His lungs ached and he dreamed he was drowning again, that the river was coming to claim him. El held him and spoke reassuringly, as he panted and struggled for air.

The next time he awoke, it was evening. He watched the sky grow darker through the window. If he didn't know better he would quite happily swear that an elephant was sitting on his chest. Other than that, he was relatively comfortable, and he guessed he was drugged up to the eyeballs, content just to lie here, surrounded by machines, as he wondered how the hell he was alive.

It was like grasping hold of the tail end of sleep – he could only remember in snatches; the faintest whisper of veil-like impressions and dreams, but maybe it was for the best. After a while he gave up in frustration. He supposed they would tell him later. Meanwhile, he was as weak as a kitten, and surprised at how breathless he felt. He tried moving and then wished he hadn't, as something pointed stabbed him in the lungs. The sudden pain forced him back against the pillows and set off an urgent alarm.

"Take it easy, Agent Burke," a nurse came in and tutted. She smiled as she settled him down again. "We promised Elizabeth we'd take good care of you. I'll give you some meds to help deal with the pain. You're not supposed to be awake yet."

She injected something into an IV port and sure enough, he began to feel better. As the sharpness began to dull to an ache, it was time for a quick inventory. There was a plastic tube sticking out of his ribcage secured by an adhesive dressing. It was attached to some sort of bottle and he figured it was probably a chest-drain. There were other tubes – far less heroic and dignified – as he unhappily and very soon discovered.

Nurses and doctors came and went and he began to piece together what had happened. He tried to concentrate on what they told him, but his head still felt stupid and muzzy. Technically, it appeared he had drowned, and his lungs had borne the major brunt of it. They were still swollen from the submersion injury and infected by the dirty water. There were other things about other injuries, which made him sound like a medical dictionary, but all in all, it was too much to deal with. He did his best to look intelligent and listen, when all he really wanted was El.

"We managed to persuade your wife to go home," one of the night nurses told him blithely. "She barely left your side from day one, and was starting to look quite exhausted."

_From day one . . ._

This meant there had been other days.

_More than one_ - the thought shocked him.

He was groping for the call-bell to find out how many, and just how much trouble he'd caused them, when fate took matters out of his hands and Elizabeth entered the room. Her anxious eyes sought his immediately, and he was dismayed by her ragged appearance. She looked tired and much paler than usual, and Peter could tell she'd lost weight. _His fault . ._ . he was filled with a wash of remorse. His quest for detail had done this to her. If he hadn't gone down to the marina that evening, then none of this would have happened. Right now, he really needed to hold her; to reassure her things would be all right.

"Peter?"

She was tremulous, questioning, and he realised the strain she'd been under. Something nagged around the fringes of his memory . . . _God, he'd asked her if he had died._

"Its okay - " he lifted his hand, suddenly desperate for the touch of her skin.

"Yes," she nodded and her voice hitched. "I really think it _is_ now." she took a step forward and caught hold of his fingers, before lifting his casted hand to her lips. "Oh, honey, I hate that you had to wake-up alone, I really wanted to be here. They told me you'd sleep through till morning, or I never would have gone home."

"Elizabeth, sweetheart, I'm so sorry . . ."

"Hush," she closed her eyes in relief and leant forward, and her apple-scented hair brushed against him. "I came straight back when they called me. There's no need for any apologies. I'm just happy to see you awake."

"How long have I been here?"

"Almost a week," she sat down, and regarded him gravely. "You were in the ICU to begin with. It didn't look good for a couple of days, but then you started fighting the tube. I guess I began to hope then . . ." she faltered and lost some of her composure. "In-spite of everything the doctors said, I _knew_ you were trying to get back to me."

They clung together for a long time after that – there didn't seem to be much point talking. The pain meds must have kicked-in at some stage and he found himself drifting once more. She was there every time he opened his eyes, fast asleep in the chair beside him. As the dull winter's dawn edged in through the blinds, Peter lay back and studied her face. For a while, he was content just to watch as she slept, and recount all the ways he was lucky. There was a time on the boat, after speaking to Neal, when he'd been sure he'd never see her again.

He had questions – so many questions – starting with how he'd been pulled out of the water, to say nothing of why Sobek had attacked him or who the guy on the boat might have been.

_A flash of recall – like a bolt of lightening. _

The vague impression of someone shouting.

There was someone else in the water beside him, someone holding on for dear life. He frowned, and tried to sift through the images, but they were hazy and his brain still felt sluggish. It was disturbing and horribly frustrating to feel so far off his game. Sighing heavily, he looked up and saw El was awake, sitting forward and surveying him carefully. Trust his wife, she was practically clairvoyant whenever something was preying on his mind. He supposed there was no time like the present, it was better to bite down on the bullet. Having no memories bothered him, and he'd rest easier if he had a few answers.

"Are you okay?"

She spoke to him gently, and he could hear an undertone of anxiety. It was there in the set of her shoulders and the trace of fear in her eyes. The now-familiar remorse settled over him, as he reached out and beckoned her closer. It would take them along time to get past this, and he hoped he could make it right.

"I'm good," he smiled at her tenderly; "it's you I'm worried about."

"Give me some time," she moved the chair up to the bed, and laid her head on the pillow beside him. "I can't tell you how horribly frightened I've been. For a while there, I thought you might leave me."

"What, do you think I'm crazy?"

It was a dismal attempt at light-heartedness, which fell at the very first hurdle. He felt choked by a mixture of sorrow and self-reproach. The words caught on the lump in his throat. He turned his head on the pillow to face her, and their eyes locked and held for a long minute. He felt a brief shudder run through her body and the weight of guilt pulled him under again. Lifting a hand, he cradled the side of her face and played with a strand of her hair.

There was something – _almost intangible_ – Peter tried to steady the memory. It was having El beside him on the pillow, a brief flash of deja-vu.

_He was drifting – sinking down through dark water – and all he could see was her face. He was filled with irrevocable sadness as he'd known for certain he was drowning. The Hudson had surely claimed him. There had been no escaping his fate._

Except there was, and he was clearly alive.

Peter felt his heart twist a little, as his brain cells began to sharpen. There was only one viable hypothesis, which he suspected was the answer to his question. _God, he was dumb,_ it was Neal . . . it had to be. It was the single most possible solution.

Only Neal had been close enough to haul him out of the water.

The Port Authority, the rescue services, they would never have made it in time.

"Tell me, Elizabeth, I have to know. How _did_ I get out of the river?"

* * *

Neal hung around the corridor for a long time. _Ridiculous,_ he was being ridiculous, but some residue of fear still lingered, and he felt nervous about entering the room. Fate had not been too kind to him lately, and perhaps he had begun to get used to it. He was a little too familiar with losing and the gods hadn't been on his side.

_It was okay – Peter was okay._

He just needed to get over the pneumonia.

Neal shivered, he couldn't help himself, and pulled his jacket closer around his ribs. For some reason, he still felt unnaturally cold, as though the ice had settled deep inside his marrow. Outside, the evening temperature had plummeted, and the city was in the grip of a light snowfall. It was nine days since he'd gone into the river and he still wasn't warm enough yet.

_Nine whole days_ . . . in which he'd chickened out and taken the easy option. June had taken him home after seventy two hours and insisted he stay wrapped up in bed. He was more than happy to do so – still numb from the effects of the cold water, and while Peter was still on the critical list, there had been no point bothering El. As for him – he guessed he'd been lucky – although lately, the word tasted like ashes.

The dirty water had caused an eye infection, and he was covered in some unexplained bruises, but other than the intractable chilliness, he was actually, remarkably unscathed. The arrhythmias were the main source of worry, but the doctors had gone to lengths to reassure him. They had resulted from the adrenalin spike and the extreme effects of the cold. His heart had overreacted in shock, but the organ itself was undamaged. There would be no untoward consequences – he could pick up and carry on with his life.

_Carry on with his life._

Smiling wryly, Neal ran his hand through his hair, and sighed in exasperation. This was all very well in theory, but it was easier said than done. So much had been stripped away from him – first his freedom and then Kate and his future. The open wound left behind was still raw and deep, and he felt naked, pared down to the bone.

_And then Peter . . . so nearly Peter. _

In a short space of time, a few minutes, in-fact, his entire world had been pulled out from under him - the sense of refuge and all his new-found securities, practically vanished in the blink of an eye. Even now he was horribly vulnerable, as though he was the one still drowning. A fresh start, any chance of a future, all gone if Peter had died.

Taking a breath, he grasped the door handle firmly, determined not to reveal any weakness. The fake smile was a type of armour which he wore like a mask on his face. He didn't know what he'd expected, but Peter's appearance still came as a shock to him, the man lay pale and unguarded, his bruised eyelids flickering in sleep. As El had said, he looked unbearably fragile, with a hint of blue shading his lips.

Neal paused, bracing his shoulders, as he remembered the scene by the riverbank. _Peter . . . so cold and unmoving_, _and_ _then the EMT shaking his head._ He closed his eyes for a nano-second, but the memory persisted like a nightmare. The phoney smile turned into a rictus grin, and stretched the muscles in his cheeks until they hurt.

_Cowboy up . . ._

Yup – _he could do this_ - after all, he was the world's greatest con man. He moved across to the fruit bowl and reached for a grape, just as Peter opened his eyes. As ice-breakers went, it was corny, but Neal was kind of glad of the opening. He put on a bad mock-cockney accent, and raised both his hands in the air.

"I give up, it's a fair cop, guvnor – you got me stealing grapes, bang to rights."

"That makes three times I caught you red-handed," Peter winced at the pronunciation, and sat up in the bed, not easy when he was basically one-handed, but he looked pleased enough to see who his visitor was. A small grin brought his face back to life. "If you promise to eat the rest of them, I'll let you off with a warning this time."

Neal raised an unrepentant eyebrow, and popped the fruit into his mouth. "What's the matter, fed up with grapes?"

"Literally fed up, in general, with just about anything edible El can think of. She's on a one-woman mission to fatten me up – she thinks I've lost too much weight."

"Won't do you any harm to drop a pound or two," Neal patted his own washboard abdomen. He was determined to keep things playful, although he heartily agreed with El. Peter was too fine-boned and brittle. His eyes were shadowed, he still looked _breakable_. "I didn't really want to mention it, but your wife's cooking _had_ started to show."

Peter shook his head scornfully, and then started to cough. He reached across for a box of Kleenex. He sat forwards, his body hunched up in pain, as he held onto his ribs for dear life. Neal tried not to wince at the raw-edged sound, but the bout seemed to go on forever. After a while, he couldn't stand it any longer, so he moved to the top of the bed. He was reluctant to cross any boundaries but Peter leaned against him gratefully. Neal supported him until the coughing jag was over – muttering encouragement and rubbing his back.

"Pretty grim, huh?" Peter shot him a rueful look. "Sorry you had to see that. They tell me to cough as much as I can . . . easy for them to say, it hurts like hell."

It was a lot better than the alternative, but Neal held back from actually saying it. He sat down in the chair and placed his feet up on the bed. His pants leg hitched to reveal the tracker. Peter's gaze travelled down to it immediately, as if checking it was safely in place.

"You know," he said, conversationally, although his voice was still raw and abraded, "they say they're a hundred per cent waterproof, but I never really believed it."

"Peter - " Neal's voice was subdued.

"I think we know now, the claims are true."

Neal gave up. "Yeah, I guess we do."

"What were you thinking?" Peter spoke softly. "From what I hear you almost died."

"_Almost_ being the operative word," Neal answered him, glibly, still aiming for a light approach, "and therefore, inadmissible. I might have come pretty close to it, but as I recall, you_ actually_ did."

"It was crazy – a stupid thing to do – to put yourself at such risk."

"Gee, Peter, thank me, why don't you?" Neal met his gaze, suddenly angry. "Are you saying if the roles had been reversed, you wouldn't have done the same for me?"

Peter stared back at him, incredulously. "I shouldn't even have to dignify that with an answer."

Neal laughed, and the sound wasn't pleasant. His blood was hot and thrumming with fury. It was the same rage he'd felt at the river bank when he'd thought that Peter had died. "I see," he pretended to deliberate. "Peter Burke has the mandate on self-sacrifice. It's okay for you to play hero, but the same rules don't apply to me?"

"Neal - "

"No, I get it, Peter, I really do. I guess it sums up what you think of me. A guy like me should be happy to stay in the car, and just sit back and leave you to drown?"

"No, of course not," Peter spoke in frustration. "That's not what I meant, and you know it. Where the hell did this come from? For God's sake, I was trying to thank you." He stopped as a light began to dawn. "Neal, why are you angry with me?"

Neal got up and strode abruptly to the window. The sky was the colour of gunmetal. He stared down at the view of the parking lot as an eddy of snowflakes swirled by. _Why was he angry . . . who was he angry with?_ If only he could answer the question. A slight draft from the window made him shiver, like someone walking over his grave.

_Nothing_ . . . none of this was going the way he'd planned, and his usual sense of poise had deserted him. Coming here should have put things in perspective, back in balance – should have made things right. He acknowledged that Peter deserved a response, but wasn't sure he was ready to give it. How pathetic that the world's greatest con man could be thrown and so lost for words.

It was easy when life was a gigantic game – when you could go wherever fancy might take you. Responsibility was colder – much harsher – as he'd discovered since losing Kate. Sometimes, especially when he was bored late at night, the siren's call became nearly irresistible. He would pace up and down his apartment and wonder what the hell he was doing. All of it . . . _it was out there,_ the big game was _still_ out there waiting. The world in all its challenge and beauty - _he should cut the damned tracker and run._ It wouldn't take long to re-establish himself and resume his sugar-coated existence, to rediscover _Neal Caffrey, con artiste supreme_, instead of _Neal Caffrey, ex-extortionist and thief. _

He turned around, "I'm sorry, forget it." He sounded colder than intentioned. "It's the snow, it's making me cranky. I'm tired and still off my game."

"No way, that isn't good enough - " Peter started to shake his head, but was cut short by another round of coughing. He glared at Neal in frustration, and did his level best to subdue it. "You'd better start talking, buddy . . ."

Ruthlessly ignoring any feelings of guilt, Neal began to edge his way to the door. It was just the escape route he was hoping for, and anything else could wait. This conversation was best saved for another time when he wasn't so exposed and vulnerable. Everything would get back to normal . . . him and Peter, they would be okay.

_Just not now – not today. _

"I'm sorry," he repeated, turning to leave, the need to run all-consuming.

He nearly made it when the door swung open, and Diana stepped into the room.

"Hey guys," she looked at them both a little quizzically, and then waited for Peter to stop coughing. "I'm glad I caught you together. Got an update on Sobek's passenger – turns out he's Russian mafia."

"Anyone we know?" Peter rasped.

"Name of Dimitri Komichenko. The man has a particularly violent history, and the mob use him as an assassin," she paused and raised an eyebrow at Peter. "After looking a little closer at his Interpol rap sheet, you were lucky to get out alive."

"What was he doing with Sobek?"

She reached into an over-sized shoulder bag, and placed a buff-coloured file on the locker. "Most of it's in here - thought you might appreciate a little light reading. It appears Vinny Sobek's been using his boat to get certain cargo past immigration."

Neal looked up, his interest caught. "Certain cargo being certain people?"

"In most cases," she nodded. "It's a two-way delivery service. He slips out past the port authorities to rendezvous with a Russian freighter. The evening you showed up at the marina, he was due to transfer Komichenko. Apparently, the usual exchange zone is somewhere out in the Lower Bay."

Peter shook his head. "So much for a simple yacht theft scam - talk about an unlucky coincidence. Sobek's boat was tied up at the marina on the same night the last yacht was stolen. I only wanted to go over his statement, it really _was _wrong place, wrong time. Komichenko was the one who attacked me first, he must figured we were on to him and panicked."

Neal shivered. "Russian mafia, huh? Those guys don't take any prisoners."

"No," Diana agreed with him. "Sobek's scared they'll come after him. He's talking witness protection, thinks they'll get to him on the inside."

"He's probably right," Peter said, ruefully. "Whether or not he eventually talks, odds are he won't make trial."

"Not our problem anymore," she indicated the case file. "We don't have jurisdiction for this one, Organised Crime took it out of our hands. Sorry guys, gotta love you and leave you, Reese wants me back in the office - " she grimaced, "better get well soon, Boss, he has Jones and I archiving files. Oh, and Caffrey . . ." she paused for a second, and then pulled something else out of her bag. "Found this old thing lying on the riverbank. Much as I was tempted to keep it, thought you might want your mojo back."

He reached out and caught it reflexively.

The black felt fedora hat.

_**TBC**_

_**Lisa Paris - 2011**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Drowning: - A White Collar Fic**_

_**Disclaimer: - I own no part of White Collar**_

_**NB: - I'm English, therefore I quite unapologetically write and spell in English. I'll do my best to keep these characters American. Many thanks to everyone who read, alerted, favourited and best of all, reviewed this fic. I'm very glad you liked it. **_

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**__**Drowning**_

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_**Part Five**_

Peter put the phone down slowly, and moved across to the window. He stared out through the glass at the view of the yard with thoughtful and unseeing eyes. Six whole weeks since he'd left the hospital, and he was becoming a little stir crazy, but the ache in his lungs persisted and a nagging cough still kept him awake at night. If it wasn't the cough, it was the nightmares. He would jolt awake, gasping and floundering. Even now he felt vaguely disjointed, as if his life had veered out of synch.

He supposed it was understandable.

_A result of the trauma he'd suffered_.

It would be better when he returned to the office, and then everything would get back to normal. He shuddered to think of the backlog, and then shifted restlessly again. There would be plenty of work for him and Neal – the same Neal who had become invisible. The whole event had been a salutary lesson if he'd ever believed they were friends.

He felt tired and more than a little betrayed. In his arrogance, he'd thought he'd known better. In the end, he'd been fooled like all the others, maybe blinded by his subconscious. _Had he been stupid or simply gullible . . . _there was no easy answer to that question. He'd never thought of himself as either, and he most certainly wasn't naïve.

He blinked, and tried to shift the sense of failure. Feeling miserable wouldn't solve anything. He'd done all he could, within the bounds of the law, even admitted the man into his private life. At the end, it was down to Neal and his conscience to decide what was right or wrong.

"Hey, honey, you okay?"

Elizabeth came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel and trailing clouds of baking olive bread around her. He was glad of the distraction and contact as she gave him a hug from behind.

Ever since he'd been home recuperating they'd spent a great deal of time together. At first it had been really necessary, as to his chagrin, he'd needed around the clock nursing, and El had scaled down her appointments to be with him during the day. He hadn't been the greatest company – he was either coughing or sleeping. The pneumonia left him weak and exhausted and he was worn out most of the time.

She'd been as strong and perceptive as ever, for which he was eternally grateful, but sometimes, he would look up quickly, and still see the fear in her eyes. He could understood why she'd been anxious, and why she was still scared to leave him. Ever since he'd woken up in the hospital, she could hardly bear to let him out of her sight.

Things were better now and _he_ was better.

They were both recovering slowly but surely, although it had been a long and painful process. He was regaining his independence and strength, and Elizabeth was less over-protective. He'd been pleased and more than a little relieved to hear her re-scheduling clients on her cell. Sunlight shafted in through the window and he lifted his face with sheer pleasure. The last week had been clear-skied and balmy with a welcome hint of spring in the air. Since he could walk without becoming too breathless, they'd even taken Satchmo outside.

Elizabeth tickled the nape of his neck, and planted a distracting kiss on his hairline. "Who was that on the phone?"

"Diana with some news about Sobek. He was knifed to death yesterday at Rikers. He was about to make a deal with WITSEC - looks like the man was right."

"Does this have any implications for you?"

He considered it. "I don't think so – I hope not. It's up to the Organised Crime boys. Komichenko's wanted for murder by half the countries in Eastern Europe. They may choose to extradite him through Interpol instead of pursuing a prosecution over here. The Russian Mob just made things a lot harder by having Vinny Sobek shanked."

Elizabeth was quiet for a moment, and then she shivered and held onto him more tightly. "When I think about what those men did to you – about those days when I thought I might lose you. Does it make me a very bad person if I tell you I don't really care?"

"Oh, sweetheart," Peter turned and took her into his arms, the familiar guilt rippling through him. He just wanted her to feel safe again – he placed a light kiss on her brow. "You could never be a bad person. After everything you've been through lately, I guess it just makes you human."

"I know there can't be any promises," she paused, and her eyes slanted up at him. "I've always had to live with that knowledge and the fear something this might happen. Seems to me it's a choice between peace of mind, or not having you in my life."

"El - "

She stopped him. "It's okay, you don't have to say anything. I've been over and over this subject, and I don't plan on breaking our rules. I just want you to take as much care as you can - to come home to supper each night."

_There it was. _

It was all she asked of him. Peter hoped things could be that easy. He drew a ragged breath and pulled her up under his chin, the exhalation stirring strands of her hair. He understood what this had cost her, and how much she must have agonised. _Freedom . . . she had given him her blessing._ He was choked and a little humbled. It was the greatest gift she could offer him. The liberty to do the job he loved.

He didn't speak because words were superfluous. She was right, he couldn't make any promises. All he could do, was try and honour her trust in him. To make it home at the end of the day.

If only everything could be as straightforward. He was a simple man, he liked things uncomplicated. No games or elaborate pretexts. His thoughts strayed to Neal again. Things seemed okay on the surface, or at least, so he'd heard from Diana. They were working on a pyramid selling scam, which was taking up a lot of their time. From the sound of things, it was pretty elaborate, and so far, Neal had been very useful. Peter supposed he should be grateful for small mercies, but still, a phone call or two might have been nice.

He coughed and it pulled at his ribcage. It was a timely, if unwelcome reminder. Elizabeth took hold of his uncasted hand and led him across to the couch. Satchmo cocked a reluctant eye at them both, and pretended to go on sleeping, but El wasn't fooled for a second, as she bundled him down onto the floor.

"Let me guess," she curled in beside Peter and placed her hand on his knee. "You're still worrying about Neal's strange behaviour?"

"That obvious, huh?" Peter sighed. "I guess right now, I'm feeling kind of foolish. Just for a second there, I thought we'd cracked it. I really believed we were friends. Stupid - " he scrubbed his free hand across his face. "I can't blame him, it's all about survival. There's nothing in the rule book about liking one another, we're both just a means to an end."

"Oh, honey, for a perceptive and vastly intelligent man, you're being remarkably dumb." Elizabeth smiled a little wistfully. "You know – I totally get why Neal's been so absent from our lives lately, and that's why I've tried to cut him some slack."

"Of course you do," Peter was rueful. "I might have guessed - my wonderful, all-seeing wife. I don't know why I didn't just ask you before, could have saved myself a whole lot of bother. Now, how about enlightening this poor dumb man, and cutting _me_ a little slack?"

"There was a part of me, when I heard you'd been injured, which was tempted to act just like Neal did. Fear of loss makes you angry, turns you into a coward – makes it easier to run away."

Peter frowned as he tried to make sense of her words. God, he must be particularly stupid. He was usually pretty quick on the uptake, but this whole _Neal-thing_ had him totally perplexed. "But Neal didn't run."

"No, he didn't – he wouldn't leave you, however much he might have wanted to. In-fact, he was forced to save your life, and that's a big part of the problem."

"The problem being that he went into the water?"

"The problem being, you nearly died."

Taking a breath, he was assaulted by memories he'd either buried or imagined he'd forgotten, the pain and shock of the sudden beating and the feel of the rough wooden deck. The latent terror was easier to deal with now – he was becoming somewhat of an expert. Peter sifted painstakingly through the images and remembered his phone call to Neal.

_He'd asked him to take care of Elizabeth. _

His arm tightened reflexively around her. The only reason he was able to do so, was because Neal had saved his life. The same Neal who'd lost the woman he loved, when she was killed right in front of his eyes. It was always so simple with hindsight. He felt as though his brain had kicked in again. There had been real panic in the other man's voice - _he wasn't the only one who'd been afraid. _

Light dawned, and he regarded El with something like awe, slightly tinged with a trace of astonishment. After a moment he leant forward with a sigh of relief and placed a kiss on the end of her nose.

"You know what? You're right, as usual. How would this poor dumb man manage without you?"

She dimpled up at him, her eyes full of mischief, and then cocked her head as the doorbell rang. "I didn't tell you, we're expecting some visitors. I invited Neal and Moz around for supper. As for the whole managing without me thing . . . maybe we can look into that later."

* * *

Neal knew well-enough, when he'd been rail-roaded, but it was El and there was nothing he could do about it. He was forced to grit his teeth and keep smiling after one glimpse of her implacable blue eyes. He considered and not for the first time, that Peter's wife had missed her true calling. She was good – _very good_ - at running rings around them all. It was a talent he recognised.

_It was a lovely day and Satchmo needed a walk. There would be plenty of time before dinner. Wasn't it handy Neal was here to go with him . . . all the fresh air would do Peter good. _

So here he was.

Him and Peter, just the two of them.

Okay, three, if you included Satchmo . . . but all _he _cared about was a ride in the car, so essentially, he didn't count.

As for Moz, Neal guessed he was in on it. The little man was clearly besotted. He would probably sell his mother down the river, to earn a brownie point or two with the suit's wife. Robbed of an opportunity to stare fiercely at El, Neal had turned his laser glare upon his friend. Moz had dropped his head a tad shame-facedly and scuttled off at speed towards the kitchen.

Peter disappeared to find his jacket, and El smiled sweetly as she handed Neal the car keys. She caught hold of his bicep in an iron grip and stretched up to whisper in his ear.

"He isn't as well as he pretends to be. Look after him and don't you dare upset him."

She had pulled away, still smiling like a tigress, as Peter came back down the stairs.

Neal stole a quick glance to the right as he handled the car through the traffic, but Peter refused to look back at him, and stared out of the side-window instead. A small nerve jumped at the pivot of his jaw and Neal tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He didn't – _really_ didn't want to do this – not right now when his emotions were so raw. There was no point raking over the angles when they kept twisting like dead autumn leaves

He'd done a decent job of maintaining a poker face when Peter asked him to head out to the marina, despite the fact his guts were churning and the thought of going back made him feel sick. _What the hell . ._ . he didn't understand the reasoning. He just wanted to move on and bury this; to put the bad memories firmly behind him, and try to move on with his life.

_Surely Peter must want that too?_

Mister Vanilla could be an enigma.

Each time he deciphered the last piece of code, a new aspect would slide into place. Of the two of them, he sometimes wondered, who was really the better con man?

He turned right into the marina. The parking lot was virtually empty. His heart lurched with a jolt of deja-vu as he realised it was Friday evening. Had Peter chosen this day deliberately or was it simply a macabre coincidence? For a few seconds he kept the engine running as he contemplated driving away. _He didn't, though._ He switched the ignition off carefully and waited for his heart-rate to settle. In a small token act of rebellion, he'd parked the Taurus in the very same space. A burst of sun slanted in through the windscreen, and he was forced to shade his eyes against the brightness. Notwithstanding the whisper of spring in the air, even the weather was essentially the same.

"So – here we are," his voice was remarkably calm.

"Here we are," Peter answered, blandly, as he swung his legs out of the car.

Satchmo whined and jumped out beside him, his plumed tail wagging excitedly. Neal suppressed a small sigh of irritation as Peter started fumbling with the leash. It would probably save them some time if he helped, but instinct stopped him from offering. There was a certain resolve about Peter. He seemed determined to do it himself.

Neal locked the car while he waited, and tried not to look too impatient. He wanted to get this over with . . . whatever the hell _this_ was. He thrust his hands into his pockets and tried hunching into his jacket. It was cool enough in-spite of the sunshine, but at least he'd thought to bring the fedora.

"Would you mind?"

Peter straightened up and handed him the dog-leash, wincing slightly as if the movement still hurt him. Neal took it without any comment – _he was guessing it probably did._ His gut clenched with a familiar anxiety. What had he been expecting? It was nine weeks since they'd been in the river . . . nine weeks since his entire world had changed.

Avoiding Peter had become an art form, and until now he'd become pretty good at it. The FBI had proved an unwitting ally by keeping him involved with a case. It was a little like living in limbo – within a twilight world of bogus realities, playing along as if everything was normal while Peter's illness dragged on for weeks.

They walked around the side of the boathouse onto the walkway which lead to the marina. He was forced to shorten his usual stride to match Peter's more careful pace, but Satchmo had no such inhibitions as he panted and dragged at the leash. He sensed Peter was finding this difficult. Elizabeth hadn't been kidding. They were forced to pause for a second or two as Peter recovered his breath.

It was back again – a slight fizz of anger. He could feel it uncoiling inside him; rearing its head as it gathered momentum, and getting ready to strike like a snake. The old adage that time was a healer – in this case it didn't seem to be working. Peter was fragile, all planes and angles, as though he might snap in the wind.

Staying away hadn't helped things.

He'd been stupid to imagine it would.

"Let him run," Peter gestured at Satchmo. "He's safe enough by the side of the river. If he goes in, you might have to towel him down before he gets back in the car."

_If he goes in . . . _

Neal shivered; he didn't want any part of this. It was obvious what Peter was up to. "Why are we here?"

"To bury some ghosts. I think we both need some closure."

"I see," Neal curled his lip. "Peter Burke's Psych 101?"

"If you like," Peter came to a halt, and turned to stare out across the Hudson. "More like Grandpa Burke's, actually. You fall off the horse, you brush the dirt off your ass, and then you climb back on again."

"Great, and now we have Peter Burke's folk wisdom. Don't tell me . . . let me guess. Grandpa Burke also told you to _cowboy up_ whenever things got tough?"

"Look at it," Peter ignored him, and refused to rise to the bait. He flung out his arm and gestured, as he watched the rise and fall of the water. "It's like a great artery feeding New York, and at one time, it fed the whole of America. Most of our ancestors' first sight of the country, and the reason the city was built here. Since we arrived you haven't looked at it once. You want to tell me why that is?"

Neal didn't like where this was going. "Hey, you're the one with all the answers."

Peter walked along the bank a little further with Neal trailing reluctantly behind him. For a man still recovering from pneumonia, he seemed happy enough to take the lead. He stopped and stared down intently, examining the flat ground near the waters-edge. There was no evidence of tyre-tracks or footprints – no indication anyone had been near.

"Is this it – is this where it happened?"

"For god's sake, Peter, it's been nearly three months. How do you expect me to remember?"

_He did though. _

Remembered it, perfectly.

In every austere and terrifying detail.

_The searing cold of the water and the blood red streaks in the sky. _

This was the place – the exact same place where he had stood and confronted his demons, where everything had hung on a decision which determined whether Peter lived or died. Neal swallowed and felt his adrenalin spike. His heart rate began beating faster. It hammered against the wall of his ribcage as though trying to fly out of his chest.

He raised his eyes for the first time and forced himself to look at the Hudson. Peter was right – he'd been ducking this moment ever since they'd arrived. It was rougher now than it had been that evening, the swift current uneven and jagged. Small waves ran in asymmetrical patterns, ruffling the surface into split grey silk. It was impressive – beguiling even, glinting bright with gold flashes of sunlight. Hard to believe such beauty could be deadly. _The river was a con man and a thief._

Peter crouched with an audible knee-crack and trailed his hand in the water. "It's still pretty cold, less than forty degrees. Makes you wonder how we survived."

There were so many ways he could have countered, but Neal found himself incapable of answering. He was transfixed - mesmerised by the river as it reached out towards him again. They were kin – they had something in common. Saw something they wanted and took it. _Him and the river, who would have thought it? _They stole things they had no right to take.

"Neal?"

Peter was talking . . . to him . . . _at him_ . . . but Neal could no longer hear. He was drowning, falling down in the blackness, and the cold beat like a hammer in his head. _No air._ His lungs had stopped working. This time, the river would claim him. Deeper now . . . he was sinking deeper and his heart was bursting out of his chest.

Strong arms around him – holding him.

Pulling him up out of the blackness.

Rubbing circles between his shoulder blades, as for the first times in weeks, he felt safe.

"Okay buddy – its okay. Just keep taking some deep breaths for me."

Peter gentled him as though he was baby – albeit one who responded to orders. Neal shuddered and choked on a strangled laugh, as he took a lungful of air and obeyed. It settled through him and his muscles began to relax. Peter's voice was extraordinarily soothing. His heart-rate slowed to something like normal as the rage and dread melted away.

A panic attack – a full-blown panic attack – he was forced to acknowledge the truth of it. He'd been running on empty – so full of anger and fear, a perfect recipe for PTSD. All of it, Sobek and the river, he'd somehow transferred the blame to Peter, but none of it had been Peter's fault and it certainly wasn't his. If he was honest, he could admit it ran deeper. A profound fear of loss was ingrained in him. Neal closed his eyes and acknowledged the truth.

_It all stemmed back to losing Kate._

And not just in the explosion.

His sense of bereavement was more visceral.

There were times when he was forced to wonder, if he'd ever really had her at all.

_Not Kate, but you do have Peter,_ he realised with a sense of astonishment. How ironic that his eventual nemesis should be the one constant thing in his life. He shivered and looked at the river again. He'd come damned close to losing that constant. The thought of being left alone and rudderless had pulled the rug out from under his feet. He still didn't know if he could settle down and conform to a life of convention, but he was one step closer than ever before, and he no longer despised those who did.

The afternoon sun was warm on his face and he felt it soak into his consciousness. The light purged the last dark shadows from where they hid in the recesses of his brain. He was sat on the grass next to Peter, but he had no recollection of falling. He scrubbed his face and realised with a shade of discomfiture that Peter was still rubbing his back.

"There's no need," he pulled away in hasty embarrassment. "Looks like your psych session worked."

"That's okay," Peter looked at him levelly. "I seem to recall, back in the hospital, you doing something similar for me."

"About that - "

"You don't have to explain. Elizabeth helped me reach an understanding. Neal, you do know that if anything happens to me, Reese Hughes won't cast you adrift?"

"That's all right, then," Neal couldn't help smiling sardonically. "Wish I'd known before I went into the river."

Peter grinned back. "I bet."

Neal stared intently at a blade of grass, and swallowed down the lump in his throat. He knew then with a lightening flash of surprise, it wasn't just about his future. He liked Peter – cared about him, and more than that – the man was important. He was the gleam of hope left in the wooden box when everything else had fled. It didn't matter if Reese Hughes would take care of him. He wouldn't want to work with anybody but Peter. He was the only one he really trusted, _Mister Vanilla – straight as a die._

He sighed. "You know I was really pissed at you?"

Peter nodded. "I kind of figured."

"I thought I'd lost the fedora, had to leave it behind on the bank."

"But you didn't."

"Nope, I didn't," he looked at the hat. "And that's good – because I've grown rather fond of it. Actually, if you want the real truth, I'd feel lost if it was gone."

"I'd say you were stuck with the thing. Doesn't look like its going anywhere." Peter was having difficulty rising. "Doesn't look as though I am, either, unless you help me get back on my feet."

Neal smiled – _really smiled_ and reached out his hand. They understood each other perfectly. He waited while Peter steadied himself and called Satchmo back to heel. A light breeze blew in off the Atlantic, whipping the current to a white-capped frenzy. The waves lapped the waters-edge in concentric arcs as they raced up the shoreline to his feet. It was a hundred – no; a thousand times different than the last time he'd been on this stretch of river-bank.

He twirled the fedora on the tip of his finger, and then flipped it back onto his head.

_**THE END**_

_**Lisa Paris - 201****1**_


End file.
